


Promises

by ceywoozle



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, PWP, bottomlock, in which cey attempts to write bottomlock, random porn drop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2015-03-09
Packaged: 2018-03-17 01:30:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3510155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceywoozle/pseuds/ceywoozle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is a git, John is getting tired of his shit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Promises

There is the smell of sweat, the stench of something sour and stale. There are heartbeats, palpable against the vibration of the throat. There are breaths, too fast, too loud, the contraction of lungs constrained against a cage of ribs.

“Harder,” Sherlock snarls, and he feels the snag of teeth, snapping shut on the skin of his neck. He cries out and feels the wet warmth of blood, or saliva, or the beginning of a bruise, and he grapples a hand behind him only to have it slapped away.

“Stay still,” John snaps, and pushes forward and Sherlock grunts and snarls into the pillow as he’s shoved forward with the slow push of John’s cock, hard and hot inside him. The stretch is merciless, the invasion unstopping. He squirms forward and two hands grasp his hips and hold him still. “Stay _still,_ Sherlock.”

“ _Harder, John!”_ he growls. It’s interminable, this waiting, this wanting and not getting. John is torturing him, punishing him for something and he hates it. “Just fuck me!”

“Bloody hell, you pushy git,” John growls, and snaps his hips forward, three times in quick succession. The words come out thin and breathless. “You want me to go faster, you can try doing the work yourself sometime.”

“For God’s sake, John. You’ve only been doing this for an hour,” Sherlock says, and feels the hot flood of triumph at the second snap of teeth, this time on his shoulder. He cries out and his hips flinch back involuntarily and the slide backwards onto the impaling length of John’s cock is gloriously rough. He feels the sweat, dripping onto him from above and he grins, breathless and panting. “I have to do everything by myself,” he says.

“God you’re such a bloody cock,” John gasps, and Sherlock answers with another backwards thrust of his hips. He swears when John’s hands tighten on him, holding him down, and he twists his head back to glare at him. John’s blue eyes snap angrily. His face is red and flushed and his mouth is open, dragging in air. His hair is dark with sweat. It slides down his temples, gleams on his shoulders and chest.

“You,” John snarls. “Will stay. Bloody. Still.” And with each word he pushes forward, his hands dragging Sherlock back, and it’s a merciless burn, John’s cock still unbearably enormous after all this time. It is filling, pushing through his barriers and dragging them down and the cry that Sherlock lets loose is an animal sound, half relief, half pain. It’s too much and not enough and Sherlock’s teeth snap down on the plea that tries to escape, because he doesn’t know if he wants it to stop or to go on. It’s the knowledge that John _will_ stop that keeps him silent. The knowledge that John is as far past the edge as he is. They are both exhausted, they are both pushing limits neither knew they had. They are sticky with lubrication, the air of the bedroom acrid with the plastic smell of it, heavy and stifling with the layered tang of sweat and sex.

“John,” Sherlock moans, because he’s so full, because he doesn’t know what he wants to say anymore.

“Speechless?” John growls, and pumps his hips forward, and Sherlock feels the sheets sliding under his with the force of it. “Sherlock Holmes, actually speechless? God, I didn’t think that was possible short of shoving my cock down your throat.”

“John, god sake, _fuck me.”_

And suddenly John’s breath is right there, against his ear, hot and wet and angry. “No, Sherlock,” he breathes. “You don’t get to decide right now. Right now I’m making the decisions. Right now I get to decide how far inside your filthy little hole my cock goes. I get to decide how hard, how often. I get to decide if I want to fuck you slowly, dragging it out till you’re begging, or else fuck you fast and hard till you’re screaming my name because you can’t remember anything else. Either way, I decide, Sherlock. It’s my cock that’s fucking that hot,  greedy little hole. It’s me coming inside you, filling you till you can’t take anymore and you’re left with nothing but to ask me oh so _bloody_ politely to let you rest.”

“John,” Sherlock gasps. “God sake, John. Just shut up and fuck me already.”

And there is the smallest huff of laughter, cool against the sweat of his neck, and John’s tongue, warm and soft and tasting. “Git,” he says, and Sherlock grins as he feels John sit back, as he hears the determined inhalation of breath to stave off exhaustion. He tastes his own sweat in the pillow under his face and when he feels the fingers tightening around him he bites down into it and when the first driving thrust of John’s cock rocks him forward he can hear his own voice, muffled in its padding.

“You. Arrogant. Bloody. Sod.”

It is unstopping, unstoppable. It is hard and fast and furious and Sherlock knows they’ve reached the end, that John’s bringing the game to an end, that he’s finished letting Sherlock play now.

It is a burning ache, too much, far too much. He is aching and hard against the sheets and he grasps the pillow with both hands to keep himself from touching himself. He swore he would do this without hands. He swore he could. And John, beautiful, glorious, brilliant John, is driving, fierce and bloody-minded into his body and the fleeting brush of the head of his cock, pressing against his prostate, is a bright and burning thing. He is open-mouthed and yelling without being aware of it, wordless and guttural, a noise utterly instinctive and he can hear John over it, grunting gasping noises as he fucks and fills Sherlock’s wanting body.

“Sherlock,” he moans. “Sherlock, I’m going to come.”

“No! Not yet. I’m close. John, please, John. Oh god John John _please.”_

“Let me touch you.”

“Don’t. Make me come. Make me come. John please pleaseplease _pleasepleaseplease.”_

“Sherlock. I can’t. Sherlock. _Sherlock!”_

And suddenly there is a cry, bright and desperate and Sherlock feels it, hot and wet and filling, John’s come spilling into him, branding him, marking him, and he can feel it, pulsing and spilling, sliding out of him and John’s hips stutter uncontrolled against the flesh of his arse as John sobs his completion into Sherlock’s neck. And all of a sudden it’s enough. It’s too much, and with a choked scream, the single syllable of John’s name falling out of him, Sherlock comes, twitching and flinching against the mattress, the slow bloom of heat against his belly where his trapped cock pulses into the sheets and soaks them. He is sobbing, the relief almost too much, the release a draining and hollowing thing. Against his back, a solid sweaty weight, John is gasping for air. His come, already starting to cool, is leaking out of Sherlock’s hole, tickling lines between his legs and making him twitch.

“I swear to god,” John pants against his ear, and with a heave rolls himself off of Sherlock to sprawl on his back on the bed at his side. “I swear to bloody god. I’m going to make Mycroft buy us a fucking machine for Christmas and I will bloody tie you up in it every single time you decide it’s a good idea to mouth off to me during sex.”

Sherlock grins, the breathless gasp of his laughter half drowned by the pillow still pressed against his face. “Promises,” he gasps.


End file.
